Leaving
by Queen Edmund Pevensie
Summary: Sam leaves for Stanford


**Disclaimer: Not My Boys **

**Leaving   
**

Sam had been talking about it for the better part of the year. Ever since all of his classmates started looking. And even at seventeen, Sammy came back to the motel real excited, smiling a smile that would have looked outrageous on an eight-year-old.

He told me first. His big brother who hadn't even graduated from high school, excited that his teachers all thought it was worth at shot applying to college.

As much as I didn't want him to leave, the grin plastered across his face told me to stop being selfish and let him go. Because it would make him happy. Happier, at least, than he ever would be here.

So I smiled right back and told him that was great, and that I was happy for him and I knew that his non-existent high school hookup rate (which I didn't really believe, by the way) would come in handy for something. When I did, he didn't scowl, or give me one of his almighty bitch faces. He just laughed, and my heart shattered, because I was really losing Sam.

"Thanks, Dean," he said, still grinning that stupid grin that made me want to cry, because he was so happy, and I was going to lose him.

I didn't know, though, that he hadn't told Dad until he got an acceptance letter. From Stanford. With a full ride.

And I guess I know why he didn't, based on Dad's reaction when Sam told him. There was almost an hour straight of Dad yelling at Sam about responsibility, and family, and Sam yelling back, telling him he didn't want this life, but he wasn't leaving us. And he was going whether Dad wanted him to or not.

"You're not going, and that's final!"

"I'm not throwing this opportunity away, Dad!"

"This 'opportunity' doesn't mean anything, Sam!"

"I don't want to hunt!" yelled Sam, throwing his hands up in the air the way he does when he's really angry, and being over-six-feet-and-angry just didn't get his point across. "I don't like this life!"

"This isn't about you, Sam!"

"What's it about then?"

Dad grew silent. He looked at me. I was sitting on the bed, fingering my drink absently. "Help me out, Dean," he asked.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked. "Why shouldn't he be allowed to go?" I swallowed. Every bone in my body told me to back Dad up, and not just because I'd spent the last eighteen years of my life doing just that. I wanted to keep Sam here, but I couldn't, because Sam would just leave again, anyway. "It's not like there's a problem with money," I pointed out, and Sam smiled at me. "What's the big deal?"

Dad glared at me, and I knew the next few weeks would be exactly pleasant. The "big deal" was that if Sam was in California, then Dad and I wouldn't be around to make sure he was safe, but I forced myself to remember that Sam was an adult now (for all of like three weeks) and could take care of himself.

"Thanks, Dean," said Sam softly.

I looked at him harshly. "Don't mention in," I muttered.

"Your brother doesn't call the shots, Sam," said Dad, just when I thought they had both calmed down.

"I'm an adult!" yelled Sam (knew he'd realize it eventually), and I stood up, so I was once again, quite literally, stuck in the middle.

"You're just a kid!"

At which point I remembered why I stuck myself in the middle, because Sam plowed towards Dad.

I put my hand on Sam's chest to stop him, pretending I was calm because we couldn't all be yelling. "Sam," I said firmly. "Enough."

"Dean, I have to go," he said pleadingly.

I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to yell and tell him he can't go, because we needed him, and I also wanted to tell him that he has to go, because who the hell else got opportunities like that, and I was so proud of him, and he should have to be stuck in this life if he could help it.

I just couldn't. Anything I wanted to say got caught in my throat, and Dad broke the silence before I could figure it out anyway.

"Fine," he said. "Go. But if you leave, don't even think about coming back."

I knew I'd lost him then. He'd been dying for a way out for year and he'd been given one on a silver platter, and there was nothing Sam wasn't willing to do to get out. Even if it meant I never saw him again. Sam was desperate.

He pulled away from me and grabbed his bag. He left, slamming the door behind him without another word. The noise was louder than anything he could have yelled, and it echoed soundlessly around the room that felt empty without Sammy in there with me.

I'm surprised I didn't break down right there. But Dad was still fuming and Sam was standing in the parking lot waiting for me to come out and say goodbye. Sam was still here, and he couldn't know how scared I was. And Dad couldn't either. So I followed Sam out the door, ignoring Dad's order to not go after him.

Because who the hell tells me not to go after my baby brother? Not my father, that's for sure, because he didn't know shit about what either of us needed. Like Sammy needed out, and I needed Sammy.

He was standing right outside the door, his bag on the ground next to him. He smiled timidly at me as if he thought I was going to start yelling. And maybe I would have, but if this was going to be the last time I saw Sammy, I wasn't going to spend my last few minutes yelling at him.

Instead, I tried bargaining for time. "You can't leave in the morning?" I asked. Sam shot me a bitch face, which I would miss more than I wanted to admit, like that was the most ridiculous thing I'd ever said; I'd said some pretty ridiculous crap. "Sam," I started instead. "I don't care what Dad says, you come and see us whenever you can."

The way he looked at me next shattered my heart and ground up the pieces so fine that I knew there was no way to rebuild it. I knew that Sam would never come home, not matter how loosely I used the term. It took every ounce of will power I possessed to keep me from begging him.

"I can't," he said, and I wished he had kept that to himself, because as long as he didn't say it out loud, I could go on pretending he would come back. That I'd see him again.

I forced a smile. "Call when you're settled in, then?" I suggested, pretending I was still functioning properly. "You don't even have to talk to Dad. Just, please, call, just so I know you're okay."

"Yeah, Dean," said Sam, bending over to pick up his bag, but before he could, I grabbed him and held him for almost a full minute, trying to memorize everything about him, knowing that he would never call me. That this was the last of my baby brother I'd have. Sam reached down and twisted his gigantor hands in my shirt, like he knew he would never see me again too, and he needed to remember me just as much I needed to remember him. So I pushed back the tears, because Sammy couldn't remember me crying, and I looked up at Sam, wasn't even trying to hide his tears.

"I'm so proud of you," I whispered gently. He gave me a shaky smile, and I cleared my throat, trying to get past the chick-flick moment that I initiated. "Call me, bitch," I begged. "Promise."

"I promise, you jerk," he laughed. And we just stood there holding each other like the rest of the damn world didn't exist. Finally, he pulled away and looked at me, and I almost broke down then.

But I didn't. Not, at least, until Sam was gone, probably for good.


End file.
